


i heard that love was out of my control

by Bruised_peaches



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Listen I, M/M, Relationship Problems, Touch-Starved, i am just sorry for the angst it took me over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27933808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bruised_peaches/pseuds/Bruised_peaches
Summary: Acceptance feels a bit like a weight lifted off his shoulders, in the same breath that it is crushing disappointment that threatens to suffocate him. Acceptance is a familiar friend that he pushes away time and time again, blind to it when things feel good and he thinks they might be getting better for a night or two. The rare occasions that Dream crawls into bed next to him are when acceptance is the furthest thing from the front of his mind, wrapped up in the thoughts of a warm body next to his and arms wrapped around his shoulders, a heart beating under his ear and fingers that brush gently against his cheek.It’s nice on those nights to close his eyes, pretend he’s wanted.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Floris | Fundy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 135





	i heard that love was out of my control

**Author's Note:**

> y'know i didn't think i was going to be writing angst fanfic abt these silly block people and their block roleplay and yet. here i am. black border, white text, crying laughing emoji. who did this.
> 
> title is from Paper Thin Hotel (specifically the cover by Matt Maeson!)

Fundy thinks he’s known for a while now, longer than he’s honestly cared to admit.

Their bedroom is quiet, as it should be for the hour he’s awake to witness; the lamp on his bedside table is dark and moonlight outside shines through his window, beams cast over the sheets where his fiancé spends his nights – 

Or, should spend his nights.

Fundy sits with the blanket made for him by Nikki as a present wrapped around his shoulders, fingers running across the soft and well-worn seams. Acceptance feels a bit like a weight lifted off his shoulders, in the same breath that it is crushing disappointment that threatens to suffocate him. Acceptance is a familiar friend that he pushes away time and time again, blind to it when things feel good and he thinks they might be getting better for a night or two. The rare occasions that Dream crawls into bed next to him are when acceptance is the furthest thing from the front of his mind, wrapped up in the thoughts of a warm body next to his and arms wrapped around his shoulders, a heart beating under his ear and fingers that brush gently against his cheek.

It’s nice on those nights to close his eyes, pretend he’s wanted.

This is his house, one that he built with his own two hands and that he opened to Dream when his proposal was accepted but it doesn’t feel like a proper home anymore. It’s all his things, evidence of his life; his shoes by the door, armour sitting on a chest waiting to be polished, his dishes from a meal for one waiting for the wash-up in the morning and himself, standing alone in the middle of it all when he’s supposed to be sleeping.

There’s not a single piece of evidence to convince himself that he shares his life with anyone else, that this relationship is more than some grandeur he’s constructed in his head.

He finds himself downstairs in his bathroom, bags under his eyes and ears pressed flat against his head. Fundy knows he must looks like shit, avoiding his reflection’s gaze and instead looking to the counter. It looks lived in, a bar of soap resting in a dish, a half empty tube of toothpaste and a single toothbrush in a cup.

Bitterly, he wonders if George’s house looks like it’s shared. If Dream leaves his weapons in the hall and his dishes by the sink, if it’s his toothbrush that waits in the bathroom, his clothes scatted in the closet. Jealousy seizes him in a vice and his chest physically aches as he lets himself slide to the floor, fingers twitching slightly with the outpour of emotions washing over him. He can’t differentiate anger from sorrow, regret from choking disappointment and he can’t tell if he hates Dream or just wishes he were there with him, someone to hold him while he sobs into the cold stone-tiled floor.

He’s struck with the realization that he doesn’t want to be alone tonight when he comes to himself again, curled on the floor and blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, held in a grip so firm his knuckles have gone pale. He doesn’t want to think of this empty house for one person, of the empty space in a bed for two.

Fundy hates that his first thought is to go for Dream’s house. 

He’s grasping onto the seams of this relationship with clawed fingers, losing bits and pieces the further away Dream tugs and the harder he refuses to let go. He thinks he’ll end up tearing pieces of himself out in the process if he doesn’t let go soon, but his nails have sunk in deeper than he’s willing to admit and he doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that he’s not ready to let this go.

Maybe, he thinks wildly, if he holds on long enough it’ll die a slow, agonizing death and he’ll finally give Dream a reason to leave him, to stop playing this drawn out game.

The path to Phil’s house is familiar, so much so that Fundy doesn’t even register that he’s taken it until he stands in the entry way, hand raised and resting against the wooden door.

Philza looks worn and tired when he opens it, though some of the grogginess clears when he sees Fundy on his doorstep, hand still held loosely in the air “What’s wrong, mate?” the other man asks, voice gentle; Fundy shakes his head and sets his jaw against the tears that threaten to fall, eyes cast somewhere to the left of Phil’s shoulder.

“Dream’s not home again tonight,” he whispers, and if he’d met Phil’s gaze he’d have seen how his eyes harden at that. “Is… is it alright if I stay here?”

The ‘I don’t want to be alone’ goes unsaid, but not unheard.

“’Course, you’re always welcome here.”

Phil brings him in and coaxes Fundy to leave his shoes at the door, dragging a quilt off the couch to throw over his shaking shoulders (he hadn’t even realized he left his house without one, Fundy thinks distantly) as he leads him down the hall. There’s one out of several other guest rooms that might as well be his by now with how often he’s stayed over lately that his grandfather leads him to, the other man disappearing for a few minutes and returning with a steaming mug. It’s the same one he uses every time he’s over, rounded with a perfectly smooth handle and it makes his throat tighten with emotion as he clutches it to his chest, heat seeping into his skin through the quilt.

“You gonna be okay for tonight?”

Phil’s eyes on him are full of concern; they always are, whenever Fundy finds his way here in the middle of the night. He nods, knows that the lack of emotion worries Phil when he steps closer and pulls Fundy into a hug, fingers carding gently through his fur.

The contact makes him want to cry; he relishes these quiet moments where it’s given freely and he doesn’t have to ask, words sticking in his throat until his nerve dies out and he chooses to ache instead of appearing vulnerable. It’s over all too quickly when Phil pulls back, Fundy disguising his disappointment with a sip of too-hot tea that tastes like Tubbo’s honey and a burn on his tongue. 

“Get some sleep, we can talk in the morning if you want,” Phil tells him before the door to the bedroom shuts, final in the click of the doorknob. 

Tomorrow, Fundy thinks, as he sets his tea to the side and pulls his blankets tighter around himself, closing his eyes against the world. Tomorrow he might confront Dream, tomorrow he might ask if Dream is happier with George, might ask if he wants to keep the ring because it’s one less reminder for him to deal with – 

Tomorrow, he knows he’ll brush off Phil’s concern over breakfast and claim it was just him being overly anxious again, that his fiancé was just a little late from collecting resources. Tomorrow he’ll drag himself back to his house that isn’t quite a home anymore and Dream will greet him at the door with a kiss that feels perfunctory, and he won’t think about George’s hands on Dream, and neither of them will talk about Dream’s absence in his bed last night.

He’ll lean into whatever little touches Dream gives him hungrily, like a dying man, categorizing each of them in his head and filing them away (a brush of knuckles against his cheek, a quick hug that doesn’t last nearly long enough, a hand on his back to let him know Dream’s walking behind him, these are the things that mean love) for later when he sits up in bed alone and Dream’s side is empty, a reminder that things are fine.

They’ll sit together at the same table and Dream’s dishes will join his at the sink before they disappear into the cupboards again, his shoes at the door until he puts them back on and walks out to do whatever he’s busy with today, and Fundy will sit at the table and pretend his heart doesn’t feel like it’s rotting in his chest.

He’s probably overthinking it all, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> (i do feel like it's important to mention that i'm not trying to demonise the ccs or anything, this is spawned off their silly little roleplay and is just meant to be Angsty yknow :3c)


End file.
